


Here Be Dragons

by temporalDecay



Series: distrait shorts [11]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Taniwa Imoogi tries to teach his descendant and his pet a lesson in politics and is keenly reminded he's too fucking old for this shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Be Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday gift for the awesome stalkerkun, who's the sweetest darling ever. <3

You wake up early, hours before dusk, when the sun still glimmers menacingly through the blinds, casting long, uneven shadows in the block. You take a moment to smell the new night not yet born and take the time to set your bedding back in place before changing in more suitable clothes. Hair still unbraided but expression already firm, you make your way through the corridors soundlessly, stopping once or twice to correct some egregious mistake in the making and glare the slacking afternoon crew into action. Maids and servants scurry behind you, wanting nothing more than to be done with their shifts, but you tolerate no inconsistencies in their work and they know it. You make your way to the basement of the palace, to the intricate labyrinth of claustrophobic corridors and slanted walkways that allows the servants access to every corner of the building. In the food preparation block, you find a plate of fruit and fresh fish already waiting for you. You allow yourself your first, and sometimes only, smile of the night as the master of the kitchen presents you with a cup of tea and adds a very generous helping of that fine plum liquor that you like so much. 

“Still alive, I see,” you say, taking the bottle and serving an equal amount of alcohol into the old woman’s cup. 

“Just another night,” she sighs, raising her cup and bowing her head to you, before taking a drink in time with you. 

You don’t remember her name, or you might have never known it, you’re not sure. She was already here, when you came to the palace, young and embarrassingly frightened as you held your Ancestor’s hand. You think she might have already been here, when he too came to join the court. She’s grown so old her hair has gone white, like foam leftover after the waves, and her hide is thick and wrinkled, but her eyes still glint when no one’s looking, a clear, warm red. The old Lord Imoogi, who dragged his vowels when he told stories, as if savoring the words like candy, taught you manners by putting you to work in this block, under the tutelage of the oldest living troll, who had by then served three Empresses and during the rule of her fourth seems just as willing to endure. 

In these walls you learned to handle knives with precision and care, and heard other types of stories, than the ones your Ancestor liked to tell you. Stories about fuchsia eyes that see right into your soul, and the foolishness of trolls who don’t understand that to rule is to live forever and who died because they didn’t know how to properly measure time. You learned the difference between dignity and nobility, and the weight of actions and consequences. You wonder, sometimes, when you’re feeling morose and melancholic, if Garfit could learn something in these walls, but his temperament displeases you too much to subject the one troll you allow yourself to feel affection for, to his capricious nature. You were a quiet if eager student, a lover of peace and order and all things sensible. Your descendant and his pet are loud and petulant and incapable of standing still long enough to hear the heartbeat of the world. 

You look at those hands, so worn out by millennia of servitude and feel humbled to the marrow of your bones, before such loyalty to one’s beloved. Her Empress might be long gone, but where others would see her gift of life as a curse, this woman sees it as a precious duty to remain witness to what came of the inheritance her lover left to the world. You allow yourself a soft chuckle, Rhesus would say you’ve gone soft with age and approve of such a thing. 

“We might just live forever,” you croon, and take a moment to delight in her quiet, sweet laugh, “you and I.” 

“Glory to the Empress and the Empire,” she says, monotone and formal, before finishing her cup, “and we just might, Lord Imoogi.” 

Then she leaves you to tend to her work, and she’s nothing more than a glimpse of old memories. You think that so long as she keeps ruling the palace from within the bowels of the basement, the Empire will go on standing. 

So long, at least, you keep ruling from outside. 

  


* * *

  


“Taniwa Imoogi.” 

You stop at the sound of your name in that grating singsong, one hand resting on the rail of the great staircase leading up to the Empress’ personal wing. The Grand Highblood leers at you from the bottom step, a nightmare of bloodcrusted hair and smeared paint. 

“Makara,” you reply and make no effort to resist the sneer, because you’d gain nothing by giving him due respect and your insolence amuses him. 

“O, High Inquisitor of Alternia,” he says, in that booming, solemn voice he uses for the chants of his faith, with a hint of hysterical laughter curled somewhere beneath it, “A brother up and brought you a motherfucking gift.” 

“Did you by chance leave it bleeding on my floor again?” You ask, turning around to face him fully, “or have you found sense and learned to bring me wine instead?” 

“Rightful shame, that,” he cackles, going up the stairs three steps at the time, until he catches up with you, “rotting that motherfucking pan with bitter shitwaste swill. You’ll drink your fucking self to death, motherfucker, ain’t right to see you waste like a whorestained bitch.” 

“I staunchly refuse to give you the pleasure of killing me,” you snap, ignoring the way the sly beast looms above you, “so a whorestained bitch’s death it is.” You thin your lips in annoyance as he laughs, nearly toppling down the stairs, and resist the urge to give him the little push he needs. He wouldn’t die, anyway, you’ve seen rebels bring down entire mountains on his head, and shrug it off with a giggle. And most importantly, it’d make your Empress cry. “Come along now, slovenly moron, the Empress has missed you.” 

“She does that, doesn’t she,” he snorts, clawing at his skull in a gesture that would almost be sheepish, were he not the brute you know and loathe so well. “Ain’t right to leave a sister hanging, no.” He turns around and throws his club at his long suffering shadow, grinning with all his teeth. “Bitch better be seeing them fuckers don’t break nothing they shouldn’t.” 

You give Zahhak credit for catching the weapon with little more than a restrained grunt, and find yourself assaulted by the notion you could like the man, when he bows politely and makes no effort to hide his grimace. 

“It shall be done, my Lord,” he mutters, with that uncanny skill of his to make his voice reach as far as necessary without raising it above a certain note. 

Of course, you can’t find it in yourself to like someone who willingly consorts with the likes of Makara and wastes his efforts trying to give him the respect he deserves. You’ve made peace with the fact the clown is your Empress’ only flaw, since she’s a troll like all the others and there had to be something that set her apart from godhood, but you owe nothing to Zahhak, who insists on annoying you with his servile tolerance of his matesprit’s nonsense. 

You climb the stairs in silence, studiously ignoring the stench of death and old blood that clings to Makara almost like a cloak, heralding his presence as he goes. Behind the heavy double doors, you find your Empress staring at the mirror and adjusting her crown, hair already being braided into submission by half a dozen attendants that flinch visibly when the Grand Highblood steps into the block. 

“My darling boys,” she says, grinning widely despite her crooked crown. “Whose night are we glubbing wrecking tonight?” 

You incline your head, just as the sun disappears behind the horizon, sinking into the sea, and wonder if you should give up pretenses and start carrying a flask around. You think you’ve earned it, really, particularly when the clown decides to try and mock tackle the Empress and they both dissolve into a rather unbecoming heap of giggling, honking and terrible, soul-destroying fish puns. 

It’s going to be a long night. 

  


* * *

  


Cronus stumbles after you with single-minded stubbornness, trying to match your longer stride with his short legs and failing miserably, as expected. Garfit holds his hand, half like a leash, half to keep himself awake. The sky is still purplish and warm, and despite the fact you instituted this routine the moment you brought the two ridiculous brats home with you, they still act like it’s a grueling task to keep their eyes open. You disapprove of that weakness, unable to remember and unwilling to even try, if there was ever a time when you were that pathetic. 

You admit they cut a rather spectacularly pathetic picture, steps uneven along the sand and expressions matching sulks, which is why you find yourself annoyed with their theatrics. Garfit looks as sullen as ever, absently worrying his sleeves with his claws. He abhors the plain dark grey of the clothes you have him wear, when he’s hoarded much more colorful choices in his respiteblock. Cronus is far more amenable to them, if only because you never scold him for ruining them with his ridiculous antics. You do not allow them useless trinkets during their training, not even their sign or a speck of violet to denote rank. You find Garfit’s longing looks to even the most modest regalia rather entertaining, and make sure to emphasize how far he is from earning the right to wear it. 

“We will be riding North tonight,” you say, turning towards the pier. “You are not to interfere with the procedures, merely observe. When we return, I expect you to be able to give a coherent report.” 

As you stop at the very edge, you send a ripple of violet light into the depths. The sea is tempestuous enough, foam swirling at the tip of each furious wave, but you suppose they could use the extra practice. Your lusus raises from the depths soundlessly, coils upon coils of white scales glimmering quietly just beneath the surface. Cronus’ partner stretches lazily as it emerges a moment later, shaking water off as it floats itself all the way up to where his charge is standing. You give the long-suffering beast a slight tilt of your head in appreciation, for knowing better than to even risk throwing water your way. You raise yourself up to take your seat on the dragon’s neck, awarding it a soft touch near the base of the spines around its face, almost affectionate. You turn to Garfit, but find the boy already clambering his way up to sit behind Cronus, arms wrapped around his waist. 

In truth, you have never told him he’s not welcome to ride with you, but the boy has never thought to ask. His tendency to fall into step with Cronus, to fold to him while hissing and pretending he’s not, it should annoy you. It is certainly weakness that you will eventually remove with surgical precision. He will be a Lord, and there will not be a place for a pet in his life, then. But you still remember what it was like, orbiting someone else without the yoke of duty holding you in place. You remember how strong you became, when you left that sun behind and became a star by your own right. 

One day, you look forward to teaching your descendant that very same lesson, and then Cronus Ampora, for all his irreverent uselessness will prove himself invaluable for the task of making Garfit into the sort of Lord Imoogi that the Empire needs. 

“Needless to say,” you add, as your lusus raises over the surf, preparing for the journey, “there will be _consequences_ if you’re seen.” 

You relish the look of unabridged terror on their faces, and then nudge the dragon forward. If the Empress herself hadn’t ordered you to go, you could have spent the entire night rebalancing taxes or maybe plotting new, ingenious ways to murder Makara without being caught. Alas, you’ve long stopped hoping the Empress will order you to do what you want to do, and instead promise yourself a nice bottle of wine to go with dinner, once you’re done. 

At least you’ll get a chance to be _didactic_ about the whole thing. 

  


* * *

  


The village burns easy. 

Your back aches and your joints feel stiff, but you still manage to make yourself invisible as soon as you step into the dusty streets. It’s all in your posture and your willingness to go unnoticed, a skill Garfit has yet to master properly and which Cronus will never learn, apparently. You leave the children high above, riding Cronus’ lusus, and then forget about them as you set out to watch your troops work. 

The village burns easy, so easy you wonder if it isn’t a trap. Your men mingle about, barely a handful, but they use their talents well, and soon enough the riot breaks out and flames stretch out to devour everything. Trolls scream and fight and die messily all over the place, and you think defiantly that this shouldn’t be something you had to do. This is a work for Makara and his pack of Subjugglators, tilting the scales and staging riots to justify the upcoming reforms. This should be the work of someone who enjoys the stench of blood so much as to wear it like perfume, who delights in how much misery he can create. This is what you get for having the better troops, though. Your laughsassins pass through the village seamlessly, instigating violence with ruthless elegance, and leaving behind dying trolls that only know to blame themselves for this. By tomorrow, the scarce survivors will have spread the rumors far enough that when the irons around their throats tighten, they will be glad for it. 

As the embers cool down, and the last of your men scurry out of the burning wreckage, you tilt your head up to try and gauge the reactions on the children and how they took the entire thing. 

Except they’re gone. 

You narrow your eyes to slits, a muscle in the corner of your mouth twitching in annoyance as you try and find the floating lusus and its passengers, but even once you give up pretenses and rise into the air yourself, they aren’t anywhere to be found. A bubble of something almost like panic bursts in your gut, flooding you with worry, and quickly followed by anger because you _refuse_ to be worried about them. You reason you have nothing to be worried about – if you even cared to be worried about them, which you _don’t_ – because your men know them well and would know to defend and protect them if they needed it. 

You decide to be annoyed because you gave them specific orders and they aren’t following them, and then fly about the perimeter of the village, trying to find them. It’s easy, once you start looking down instead of up, too. They’re in a clearing perhaps two hundred feet away from the village’s walls, and they clearly didn’t bother to try and hide Cronus’ lusus from sight. You land on a nearby tree, soundlessly, and study the scene while gathering your composure. It wouldn’t do to let them get the wrong impression as to why you are so angry about their antics. 

“I think she’s dead,” Garfit murmurs demurely, shuffling inside his shirt and nudging the body of a lithe tealblood you knew well. 

Cronus stabs it again, viciously. 

“Yeah,” he adds, smug, as he turns to face Garfit with a smile eager for praise, “ _definitely_ dead.” 

“Lord Imoogi said we should not interfere,” your descendant points out, worrying his sleeves with his claws and not looking at Cronus in the eye. “We should go back up.” 

“We got the one who started the fire!” Cronus retorts, huffing as he puts his tiny fists on his waist. “Doing is better than watching, _always_ , he’ll be impressed we got her.” 

“And if he’s not?” Garfit snaps with a little terrified snarl, head sunk between his shoulders defensively. “This was a bad idea.” 

“It was your idea,” Cronus mumbles uneasily, falling to his knees and wiping his bloodied hands on the dirt. “You’re the one who said I couldn’t kill someone bigger than me, so of course I had to prove it.” 

You drop from the tree without making a sound, landing behind the trunk and taking a moment to school your face into your usual mask before stepping into the clearing. 

“I am just so very interested to know the chain of events that resulted in this,” you say, voice silky smooth, with just the barest hint of a snarl in it. 

Garfit stands to attention almost at once, though his shoulders shake a little. Cronus startles at the sound of your voice and manages to trip on the dead laughsassin’s legs, falling on his ass on the ground and then scrambling up until he’s half hiding behind your descendant. 

“You ordered us to watch, my Lord,” Garfit says, plaintively. 

“I was not aware you spoke a dialect wherein watching is a synonym with stabbing,” you purr, stepping closer to examine the scene better. 

The woman, one of your most promising assets though not yet fully trained, shows signs of both their handiwork, a broken neck and nearly a dozen stab wounds from the knife Cronus is so dearly trying to conceal behind his back. 

“She started the fires,” Cronus argues, without stepping forward, “we saw! She was killing people and setting everything on fire, we didn’t want her to escape.” 

“It was his idea,” Garfit adds, and dodges when Cronus tries to smack him. 

“You dared me to it!” Cronus snarls, waving the knife around for emphasis, “it’s your fault.” 

“I’m not your lusus,” Garfit snarls, leaning in to glower at his pet. 

Then Cronus headbutts Garfit, because _of course_ Cronus headbutts Garfit, you’ve yet to present the boy with a problem he doesn’t try to beat into submission. Garfit, being Garfit, headbutts back, because he’s the one problem Cronus has yet to learn will _always_ retaliate. 

As soon as someone’s teeth clamp down on an arm, you close your eyes and beckon patience you dearly wish you had. 

Then you give up pretending you’re something other than yourself and fling away the pair of squealing troublemakers with a casual flick of your wrist, mildly amused at the way they shriek as they bounce off the surface of the water, not unlike a misshapen, obnoxious stone. Cronus’ lusus raises to the sky, pausing a moment to look at you nervously, before it takes off to go find his wayward charge and your descendant. 

You think making their way back home on their own will give them time to understand everything they’ve done wrong. At least you hope so, because you have no intention of debating morality and ethics with either of them now. 

  


* * *

  


You’re well into your third bottle of wine and mostly done with your paperwork for the day, when they make their way into your study. You say nothing to acknowledge them, because you’re not quite sure what to say, but they’ve never figured out what your silence means, so it doesn’t matter. You ignore them while they shuffle about, pulling on a cushion each to come sit by your feet. 

“We shouldn’t have killed that girl,” Cronus mumbles, after a moment, “it wasn’t our place.” 

You make a soft sound in the back of your throat and reach out to finish the rest of your cup. 

“She was under your orders,” Garfit says, slow and unable to hide the sliver of disgust in his voice, “wasn’t she, my Lord?” 

The worst thing about your descendant and his pet is that they aren’t, in essence, stupid. Quite the opposite, in fact, when they stop arguing for long enough to look at things critically. You sigh wanly against the rim of your cup and reach to refill it again. 

“We do not serve the Empress or trolls or gods,” you say, swirling the wine with one hand and letting the other drop down to pat Garfit’s head. “We do not serve ourselves, above all. We serve the Empire, and what is good for the Empire will inevitably be bad for someone else. The people in the village had to die, because their deaths will buy the Empire greater good.” 

“If they had to die anyway,” Cronus mutters, face hidden behind Garfit’s neck, “couldn’t they just die fighting?” 

“Not every troll gets to die a hero,” Garfit says, before you can, and despite it all, you approve of the realization behind his words. “Not every troll is important.” 

“The throne sits in the dragon’s jaws,” you give in and smile at the ceiling with all the bitterness you can muster, “because we could destroy it all and instead we choose to make it better.” 

Garfit reaches out to hold your hand with his, curling against your leg with Cronus in tow. Soon enough they’re asleep, tiny bodies slack. It would be kinder of you, to kill them both. It would be easier, too. 

But you will not be the dragon that snaps his jaws shut. 

And as much as you’d prefer to spare them both what is to come, you’ve made your choice. They will too make theirs, when the time comes. But by then you’ll be long gone, and it won’t be your responsibility anymore. You shoulder the most terrible burden because no one else can, because that’s what you were made for. You worry sometimes, and hate yourself for worrying at all, that Garfit will be too kind and too soft to follow in your footsteps. But then you remember he too was made for this, and you have no doubt he will find his way, just as you did. You float the sleeping children off your feet, gently enough they do not wake, and leave them in a plush armchair by the wall. You finish your wine and sigh one last time, before you head out to find your Empress and report to her the success of the day. 

Your beautiful, ruthless Empress, who will enslave the whole damn world under her golden chains, just because she can, who consorts with monsters like Makara and who delights in dressing you up with honors because you’ll never wear them anyway. 

In about a hundred sweeps, at most, the Empire will be unified and whole, and you will place it in her hands to do as she pleases. And once it’s done, you wonder what she’ll do, when there are no more wars to fight, no more rebels to hunt down. Your Empress is above all a warrior, a lover of strife and battle. She is happiest when she has an enemy to face, when the stakes are high and there’s a clear division between us and them. 

But in a hundred sweeps, Garfit will be wearing your title and you will be dead and it won’t be your problem anymore. You will be done by then. 

You will be _done_. 

  


* * *

  


“Oi, Taniwa,” your Empress says, leaning to rest her chin on her hand, elbow on the table. “You’ll introduce them to me one night, right? Your grubs.” 

You imagine all the things that could go wrong if you did. 

“When the time is right, my Empress,” you smile wanly, “of course.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [Askblog for this verse.](http://requisitionforms.tumblr.com)


End file.
